Victory Celebration
by karaokegal
Summary: A Joolswank fic from the Merry Month of Masturbation 2007. Missing scene from Rosebed Memoirs. Spoilery for series 1.


Jools arrived at his flat well pleased with the evening

Jools arrived at his flat well pleased with the evening.

Wagner had turned out to be a disappointment, but the drama at Thames House was top-notch.

The look on Harry's face when he produced the manuscript from his trousers was well worth the nuisance of a late night call on the junior service as well as their ridiculously outdated security precautions. Not to mention the sport of subjecting Harry and Tom to a dressing-down over the murder of Sergei, knowing full well that the old bolshie had been a liability for years and no one would mourn his loss.

By the time the papers came out, Dick Maynard would be completely disgraced and the PM would have no choice but to ask for his resignation. Celebratory brandy was certainly in order. It was long past midnight, but the night was too full of victory to think of sleeping yet. A few phone calls, some text messages and emails to verify that his underlings were doing their jobs at posts from Beijing to Basra, but his mind kept coming back to the situation at Five.

He and Harry went back a long way. Back to a particularly ugly situation in Africa, involving a local warlord, a badly misplaced ambassador and said ambassador's comely wife. Harry Pearce had been then, as he was now, first and foremost a soldier. He understood obeying orders through strategy and tactics without having a clue about how to manage human beings. Only Jools' superior manipulation had averted a complete tragedy and possibly a war, for which Harry would always be in his debt and never forgive him.

Nothing had changed. Harry thought Tom Quinn was a man in his own image, without seeing for a minute the doubt and fear festering under the self-righteous demeanour. Tom would break badly and Harry would be the hardest hit.

If Tom were one of Jools' officers, he'd have broken him a long time ago, in a manner far more pleasurable for all concerned.

Jools removed his eveningwear, putting it out to be picked up by the cleaners in the morning The silk boxers he kept on, adding a silk dressing-gown. If the bloody worms were going to devote their lives to spinning the stuff, there was no reason Jools Siviter shouldn't enjoy the incomparable sensation of its smoothness against his skin.

Yes, he thought, finally settling back against his pillows, one hand lightly passing over the silk undergarment that had given the rabble such a shock. Tom Quinn, at his command, no doubt protesting the very idea, invoking the professional piffle that he didn't have to submit to a superior, and then haughtily pointing out his life-long commitment to relationships with insipidly bland women which, Jools would drily remind him, had all ended in abject failure including the current situation that had left him banging on doors for threatening his paramour's ex-husband.

After that, it would probably be enough to point out that they were still having the conversation, so Jools had already won. That's what it meant to understand people. (Adam Carter could tell Tom a few things about that, if he were so inclined, as could his wife.)

Having accepted the inevitable but still "bargaining over the price," as the joke went, Tom might try to escape with merely the use of his hands or his mouth and Jools might let him…the first time.

Friction was friction, as he was proving right now, hand playing more rapidly over the silk.

With only the slightest sigh of pleasure, Jools moved his hand to touch himself directly, relishing the contrast of his cool palm against warm flesh as his fingers wrapped themselves around the shaft. Speed and pressure increased while poor Tom learned exactly who he was and what he would do, allowing Jools to reap the benefits.

The image that brought forth the final shiver of climax was Tom afterward: used, debauched, spent. Held up to a mirror and made to face his own weakness. Delightful.

Jools put out the light, knowing he'd best get some sleep before the fireworks that would be erupting a few hours hence. He imagined Harry would put some of the pieces together and pay a visit before the day was through.

Dear Harry. Always the field soldier and never the general. It was all about understanding people.

He allowed himself one more fleeting regret for Tom Quinn, who'd never find out exactly what he was capable of.

Such a pity.


End file.
